


FATAL ERROR

by Zampano



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: CYOA sort of, Gore, I don't know man, I just don't know, M/M, i've been doing so much pixel work i've gone a little loopy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 06:59:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15358833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zampano/pseuds/Zampano
Summary: Hank wakes up in the middle of the night to a glitching Connor. Written like a CYOA, playthrough by fantastic@ao3.





	FATAL ERROR

**Author's Note:**

> I DMed [fantastic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantastic/profile) and this happened, I guess. Warnings for gore, self-harm, autophagy, and lobotomy imagery. (Robotomy?)

**android execution specialist**  
Hank waking up at like 2 am to pee his beer pee and he walks into the living room and in the pitch dark, a tiny glowing red circle on the couch

 **fantastic ⭕**  
CREEPY  
what's he thinking about...

 **android execution specialist**  
Will Hank dare to find out?  
[X] Approach  
[O] Pee and begone

 **fantastic ⭕**  
Pee and begone  
a man must know his limits

 **android execution specialist**  
Hank pees. It burns a little. He wonders if he's getting a UTI. He's almost back in his bedroom where he hears a soft, wet munching noise from the direction of the couch.

[X] Investigate.  
[O] Return to slumber like a God.

 **fantastic ⭕**  
whaT THE FUCK  
X  
that shit ain't normal

* * *

Hank tentatively walks over to the couch, his burning urethra all but forgotten. His eyes are adjusting to the darkness and he can now make out a Connor-sized lump. He recoils when he steps in a seeping puddle of something wet and sticky on the rug.

 **[X] Turn on the lights.**  
[O] Approach in the dark.  
[△] Call out for Connor.  
[□] Call out for Sumo.

Hank quickly reels away from the rug, and makes a beeline for the light switches. Not a single voice-activated light source in his goddamned house, not even the TV. He slams his hand down on the switches and floods the house with fluorescent light, squinting as his eyes sting.

Connor is sitting on the couch in a huddle. He smiles at Hank. The fingers of his right hand are gone, skin deactivated up to the wrist. Blue blood runs down freely from the remaining stumps, soaking into the rug. There's also thirium dribbling down his chin. He has eaten his fingers.

 **[X] Ask him why.**  
[O] Give up on life.  
[△] Run out of the house.  
[□] Go back to bed.

"What the fuck, Connor?" says Hank. "The fuck you do that for?"

Connor twitches like a broken kiddie ride. He looks down at his decimated fingers, smile still warm. "Component," he tells Hank, and holds out his mangled hand. "Is it good? It is good for you. Have some component, lieutenant."

His LED cycles bright red.

[X] Accept.  
**[O] Decline.**  
[△] Try to fix him.  
[□] Go look for Sumo.

"No thanks," says Hank, waving a hand to dismiss the offer. "You know I can't eat that shit, Connor."

Connor stops. It's less of a human pause and more of a machine ceasing all operations. This lasts for two icy seconds. "Why do you not love me, lieutenant?" he asks. "I am failing my mission. I am failing mission number three-two-four-seven-six-one-one-five-three-two-two-five-one. I am failing again. I am failing mission number three-two-four-seven-six-one-one-five-three-two-two-five-two. I am failing again. I am failing mission number..."

[X] Ask him what's wrong.  
[O] Leave the house.  
**[△] Try to fix him.**  
[□] Call Cyberlife.

Hank steps closer to Connor. The gentle fumes of benzene from evaporating thirium is sickly sweet in the air.

"Shit, Connor," says Hank. "What's wrong with you? Hell, I'm gonna fix it."

Connor looks up at Hank, his gaze full of unconditional trust despite his eyes seeming unfocused like a smashed camera lens.

"Please, fix it, lieutenant," he says. "Sockets."

 **[X] Inspect him.**  
[O] Ask him to diagnose his own damage.  
[△] Wrap up his hand.  
[□] Smack him like your grandpa's television set.

Hank seats himself on the couch beside Connor, paying no heed to the blue blood soaking into his boxers. He sets about inspecting Connor, starting with his mutilated hand. As Hank turns around the ruined appendage and takes in the serrated edges of plastic worn down by fibreglass teeth, Connor opens his mouth and out pours a slurry of thirium and masticated bits of his fingers.

His LED is still an alarming red. Hank looks over his other parts to the best of his ability. They seem intact and functional. Connor hums when Hank inspects his scalp and his nape with his fingers.

Hank, with his limited expertise, cannot detect any further anomalies.

 **[O] Ask him to diagnose his own damage.**  
[△] Wrap up his hand.  
[□] Smack him like your grandpa's television set.

"Can you, uh," Hank swallows. "Run an internal scan on yourself? Jesus."

"Of course I can, lieutenant," Connor replies, voice cheerful and professonal. "Please stand by. Initiating diagnostics scan. This might take a little time."

Connor stiffens, eyes glazing over as his simulated breathing stops. Were it not for all the blue blood, he could be a very convincing human corpse in prim and proper rigor mortis.

His LED cycles, still red.

 **[X] Hold his hand and wait.**  
[O] Go get a drink.

Hank remains seated, despite his blood screaming for more alcohol to be dumped into it right away. As much as he'd like to dull the edges of reality, now is really not the time to leave Connor all by himself.

He holds what remains of Connor's hand, thirium bleeding over him. Connor remains perfectly still for minutes. Hours. It's minutes. Hank startles to attention when Connor resumes breathing, his posture softening.

"Well, what is it?" asks Hank, throat dry.

Connor fixes him with a vacant smile, eyes like empty windows in a haunted house. He reaches up with his functioning hand, and digs his fingers into the eyelids of his left eye. The skin on his face pulls back as he does, but he's not being procedural right now -- he deftly rips out his optical unit, thirium gushing down his face in its wake.

"Eight-zero-nine-one-E," he tells Hank, holding the optical component out to him. "Wrong. Very wrong, lieutenant."

[X] Accept the optical unit.  
[O] Ask him what that means.  
**[△] Shove his optical unit back into his face.**  
[□] Walk away.

Hank wastes absolutely no time. He seizes the optical unit -- Connor's fucking eye, to hell with that -- and shoves it with all the violence of a man in mad panic into the gaping socket it had left behind in Connor's face.

Connor freezes. He emits a noise Hank can only define as a pitiful squeak.

"I don't understand your motivations, lieutenant," he says. He looks betrayed. He looks shell-shocked. "Do you wish to send me back to Cyberlife for disassembly?"

[X] Yes.  
**[O] No.**  
[△] Hug him.  
[□] Go back to bed.

"Fucking hell no!" says Hank. "Of course not, Connor. I'm not as much as calling them. I'm trying to keep you from disassembling your own fucking self."

Blue blood still oozes from the edges of his hastily-removed optical unit, his skin rippling white where it struggles to interface. "That is unlikely," Connor says, casual and collected. "I would remind you of the American Androids Act, Public Law number eight-three-three, passed in the year twenty-thousand and twenty-nine, which clearly states that no android may disassemble itself without the explicit command of its owner."

"I don't fucking care," says Hank.

"I understand," says Connor. The scent of benzene is heavy in the air now, cloying in the humidity. "After all, if you command me to do so either way, lieutenant, I will have no other choice."

[X] Dismiss the idea of ownership and let him disassemble himself.  
**[O] Acquire ownership and command him not to disassemble himself.**

[THIS ACTION WILL HAVE CONSEQUENCES]

"Well yeah," says Hank, grasping at whatever purchase the situation can afford him. "I'm your owner, and uh -- fuck it, I'm commanding you not to take yourself apart."

Connor blinks, little calculated movements that carry the air of computing lag. "As you wish," he says finally. He sits up, almost demure in his posture while remaining at attention, like he's deferring to authority.

Which Hank realizes, he is.

[X] Command him to fix himself up.  
[O] Command him to switch into sleep mode.  
**[△] Fix him up yourself.**  
[□] Go back to bed.

Well, at least right now, this was good for damage control.

Hank picks up Connor's destroyed hand and turns it over. Thirium is still leaking out of the worn stumps, and the way his skin around the wounds projects and retracts like a flickering display is alarming. Hank realizes he has no idea what to do in this situation, and the helplessness strangles him with a familiarity that guts him down to the bones.

Did blue blood even clot? Hank searches for the closest length of clean fabric -- he doesn't want to leave Connor behind by himself for long. Whatever had glitched in his program seems contained for now, but Hank isn't going to push his luck. He returns with a pair of his boxers, fresh from the laundry, and wraps it around the maimed remains of Connor's hand.

Connor lets him. Next, Hank fetches a pouch of thirium from the refrigerator. "Here," he says, holding it out to Connor. "Drink this."

Hank is pleased when Connor accepts the pouch without fuss. He unseals the cap and sucks at the spout. Thirium continues to leak from his hand, soaking a temporary deep blue into the makeshift bandage.

 **[X] Ask him how to stop the bleeding.**  
[O] Command him to switch into sleep mode.  
[△] Ask him what he wants.  
[□] Go back to bed.

"Fuck, Connor," says Hank, gesturing to his bandaged hand. "How do I stop this? You'll bleed out."

Connor looks up through his polymer eyelashes, still sucking on the spout. "If you'd like to stifle the bleeding, you'll need to cauterize the damaged casing," he says. "If you wish to preserve my functionality I would suggest doing so before my thirium levels become critical. You could use your stove for the purpose."

Hank looks over to his burner stove. The urge to muddle his brain with alcohol rears up, barely held at bay.

"So how do I do that?"

"I would suggest placing the broken component over an open flame until the plastics weld together," says Connor.

 **[X] Help Connor stick his hand into an open flame.**  
[O] Command Connor to stick his hand into an open flame by himself.  
[△] Get a drink.  
[□] Go back to bed.

"Alright then," says Hank. "Come here."

He holds out a hand, and Connor rises to his feet, leaving his now empty packet of thirium on the coffee table. Hank beckons him over to the kitchen counter, before turning on a large burner. Flames leap to life, bright and angry in the dull lighting of the kitchen.

"Well, it's not like it's going to hurt you, I guess," Hank says, dry and bitter.

"I'm a machine that cannot feel pain, lieutenant," says Connor in reply, as Hank gently ushers him closer and unwraps the thirium-soaked boxers from around his hand. "My components fire distress signals but only for the purpose of self-preservation."

"Well clearly, that bit's broken about now," says Hank. He picks up Connor's damaged hand at the wrist, and slides it over the lit burner. The smell of sizzling plastic and chemicals spears through the air, and Hank has to stifle a cough. Connor's casing hisses as it melds, welds back together with the glisten of liquid.

Hank then realizes something alarming. Connor is making a strange, stilted wheezing noise, like a record player stuck on a yawn.

 **[X] Investigate sound.**  
[O] Ignore sound.

Hank swears under his breath and tries to discern what the fuck ever Connor's doing now. He's alarmed, certainly, but his life has taken on that comforting edge of dissociation he hasn't had the opportunity to sink into lately. His own self-preservation protocols must be working overtime.

"What are you -- " Hank starts, but then it dawns on him. Connor is laughing. It's almost a giggle, a breathy little series of noises that make him shake. They lack the staccato of human laughter, but after a little while of attention they're unmistakeable for what they are.

Plastic continues to burn, melt, and seal the wounds. Thirium burns sooty, blackness collecting in the hardening ooze.

[X] Laugh with him.  
[O] Ask him what's so funny.  
**[△] Ignore him.**

It's still alarming. Hank however, elects to ignore it. His energy and tolerance levels are depleting by the moment, and at this point laughter is probably one of the least consequential things Connor could do. Hank keeps his eyes on the burner, watching until the casing of Connor's hand has sufficiently fused itself back together -- albeit in a grotesque lump that no longer resembles a hand -- while firmly paying no heed to Connor's stupid laughing.

Hank shuts off the burner, before letting go of Connor's hand. "There, we'll just, go pick up a new one tomorrow," he tells Connor, willing himself to sound reassuring. It falls flat.

"I would like three," says Connor. "Three hands. All secured to this same wrist. Do you know why?"

[X] Tell him to shut up.  
**[O] Ask him why.**  
[△] Get a drink.  
[□] Go back to bed.

"No, I don't know why," says Hank, lifelessly. "I suppose you're going to tell me."

"I do not understand," says Connor. "Please repeat your request, lietenant."

"Jesus fuck," says Hank. "God. How do I fix you, Connor. I don't know what to do. I don't even know if you're hurting or what."

Hank catches himself at his own words and pinches the bridge of his nose. Connor watches him, almost curiously.

"But even if I cumulatively had six hands," says Connor suddenly, after a spell of silence. "They would not be enough to hold all my love for you, lieutenant."

[X] Tell him he's really broken.  
[O] Ignore him.  
**[△] Hug him.**  
[□] Go back to bed.

Hank couldn't put a name to it, but it washes over him like a tidal wave. Affection he hadn't allowed himself to feel in years. He reaches out and closes a hand over the back of Connor's neck and pulls him in. Connor moves in with ease, steps into Hank's arms and lets himself be squeezed close. Hank feels the fingers of Connor's remaining hand curl into the back of his shirt, like he's mooring himself to land.

"Lieutenant," says Connor softly, voice quiet and muffled against Hank's shirt. "I believe I have a fatal error in my code."

 **[X] Be sarcastic.**  
[O] Ask him how to fix it.  
[△] Push him away.  
[□] Suggest deactivation.

"Really now," says Hank. Having Connor in his arms is strangely comforting, like the whirlwind of horrors is starting to ebb. "I don't know why you'd think that. You seem perfectly serviceable to me."

Connor ducks his head. Hank distantly wonders if he's blushing, and if androids can. He supposes he has yet to notice the obvious lack of it, so perhaps it was a feature. He has no idea what he's thinking about anymore, his logic a little haphazard in the wake of... well, whatever it was that'd just happened.

Still happening, Hank reminds himself as Connor twitches a little, like a mechanical spasm. His LED is still red, Hank notes with dismay, but he's starting to scrounge up his last bit of optimism. This was going to be the death of him someday.

"Will you help me force reboot, lieutenant?" Connor asks. "I will pay you in teeth."

[X] Help him.  
**[O] Decline.**  
[△] Teeth?

"I'm not doing a goddamn thing," Hank says. Connor is deceptively soft in his arms, his breathing simulation making him feel as fragile as a human. Hank knows better than to heed Connor's suggestions. "What would a force reboot even do to you?"

"It would compel me to redownloaded my memory from Jericho's new cloud," says Connor. "I backed it up yesterday at fourteen hours and fifty-one minutes and eleven seconds. I believe my code was clean and operational then."

[X] Decline.  
**[O] Ask him how to force reboot.**

Hank is still skeptical, but the idea doesn't seem as ill-advised as it had a few moments ago. "So uh, how do I do that? What do I have to do?"

Connor looks up. His eyelids are heavy, as though he's drugged up on Red Ice. As though he possesses the wetware necessary to be drugged. Hank realizes a moment later it's the result of all of Connor's muscle structures being somewhat slack at the moment, the silent motors behind them expending only the effort to keep him upright. And he's putting a considerable amount of his weight on Hank right now, anyway.

"There's an emergency force reboot switch on the front underside of my cranial processors," Connor says. He twitches, a sharp burst of movement that alarms Hank, but it calms soon enough. "You'll need to reach in through my optical socket with a suitably thin implement and depress it."

Of course it'd be something like that.

[X] Decline.  
[O] Accept.  
[△] Ask him if there's another way.  
**[□] Accept and get a drink.**

"What _I_ need," Hank says, "is a drink first."

"Understandable, lieutenant," says Connor. He pulls himself away from Hank's arms, taking a step backwards. "Usually, Cyberlife has my operations paused during the procedure, but that would require a stasis pad we do not have at the moment."

Hank walks over to the fridge. He grabs a bottle of the good old JD and pours himself a drink, neat, into a glass from the sink. It's unwashed, with the dried remnants of old alcohol at the bottom, but Hank isn't too picky. He takes a large sip.

Connor stands there, watching him. He at least has the decency to emulate looking sheepish. "I would recommend an ice pick," he says.

"I don't have a fucking icepick," says Hank.

"Any sharp, sturdy instrument would do," says Connor. "Preferably steel."

Hank takes another sip.

 **[X] Use a screwdriver.**  
[O] Use a knife.  
[△] Use a knitting needle.  
[□] Use a pair of scissors.

Hank decides to finish his drink before moving on. It settles into his belly with a warmth that trails a burn down his throat.

"Wait here," he tells Connor. He walks over to the garage and rummages through a tool drawer. Screwdriver acquired, he returns to the kitchen and isn't sure what to call the mix of disappointment and relief that hits him when he finds Connor still standing where he'd left him.

"We have a problem, lieutenant," says Connor.

"You don't say," says Hank. He feels ridiculous, screwdriver in hand.

"Cyberlife has installed self-preservation protocols to ensure I will not be force rebooted without the necessary clearance," says Connor. "My program will lash out and try to eliminate the threat. I would suggest you restrain me."

 **[X] Accept.**  
[O] Decline.  
[△] Reconsider force reboot.

"Fine," says Hank. "Sure. I'll do that. Wouldn't want to be killed in my own house by an android, that'd look bad for the lot of you."

Connor smiles. Hank feels his stomach drop. He soothes it by pouring himself another glass of whisky. 

"You could restrain me on the kitchen table," says Connor. "The sofa is another option, but that might be tricky to secure. There is also your bed, which might provide a more practical structure. I believe you could use the padlocks and chains in your garage, though they might require a proper dusting."

Connor's still smiling. Hank supposes that had been an attempt at a joke.

[X] Use the kitchen table.  
[O] Use the sofa.  
**[△] Use the bed.**  
[□] Reconsider force reboot.

Hank weighs his options. The kitchen table seems far too light, and the sofa far too much of a hassle. Well, implications be damned. The bed should work just fine. "Fine, yeah, let's use the bed."

"Got it," says Connor. "I will remember to pay you in teeth for this, lieutenant. Thank you."

"Why the fuck do you keep saying that," says Hank, but it's not a question. He returns to the garage to seek out his old crate of chains and padlocks. They're rusty and analogue, nothing like the electical padlocks in use these days. He carries the crate into the house, and to his bedroom. He's sweating, dust wafting in the air as he takes out the chains with the creaks and clangs of old metal.

"Connor, come here," he calls out.

Connor walks into the bedroom. He sits down on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap.

[X] Be kind.  
[O] Be ruthless.  
**[△] Be indifferent.**

"Come on," says Hank, voice impassive. He holds out his hand, and Connor looks at it for a couple of moments before offering his stump.

"Okay, yeah, I don't know how that one's going to work, but we'll figure it out," mutters Hank. He maneuvers Connor on the bed, setting him into place before he drags the chain out under the structure. He affixes the padlocks to Connor's wrists and shoulders, and a couple to his ankles. He feels winded by the time he's done, and he'd even allow himself to feel misplaced if he hadn't brought his whisky with him into the room.

"I must warn you, lieutenant," says Connor. "I may respond in a manner you might find distressing. However, you shouldn't allow the process to be interrupted. You shall need to depress the force reboot switch and hold it down for twenty seconds. Forfeiting the procedure halfway may result in a total and irrecoverable loss of my memories and consequently, a shut down."

"Oh, sure," says Hank. "No pressure, right."

[X] Sit on him.  
**[O] Sit at his side.**  
[△] Reconsider force reboot.

Hank positions himself to Connor's side on the bed, angling from the side to do... well, whatever it is that he has to do. It's a little uncomfortable, but Hank supposes he can work with this.

"I have ejected my right optic unit," says Connor. "You should be able to remove it without causing a breach, lieutenant."

There's the sliver of a white shimmer circling Connor's right eye. Hank presses against it with a tentative hand, and his optic unit pops out like a VHS tape. There is, fortunately, no blue blood.

Hank removes it. After a moment of dithering, he sets it down on the nightstand.

"Now I just shove this into your... socket?" Hank asks, gesturing to his own eye.

"Yes, correct," says Connor, optical socket gaping and dark. "Angle upwards and to the right. You will know when you reach it."

"Would I," says Hank. The screwdriver feels heavy in his grasp.

"Certainly," replies Connor. "My program would inform you."

[X] Gently push the screwdriver into Connor's optical socket.  
[O] Shove the screwdriver into Connor's optical socket.  
**[△] Change positions.**

Hank reconsiders sitting to the side. The angle would be all wrong, and he's certain he's going to blow out some other delicate machinery. He shifts, hefting his weight over to kneel over Connor, straddling him over his chest.

"You seem nervous, lieutenant," Connor observes.

"Nah, I'm peachy," says Hank. He takes one final swig of his whisky, sets the bottle back down on the nightstand. There's the pinprick of a light inside the recesses of Connor's optical socket, a connection hopelessly seeking synapses to relay visual input.

Up and to the right. Up and to the right.

 **[X] Gently push the screwdriver into Connor's optical socket.**  
[O] Shove the screwdriver into Connor's optical socket.  
[△] Change positions.

Hank angles the screwdriver. Connor's face is soft to the touch, upsettingly human. Connor has the audacity to smile at him, cheek smushed where Hank's hand is resting on it.

"Good luck, lieutenant," says Connor.

Hank doesn't know what to say, though he supposes he's grateful for the sentiment. He gently slides the screwdriver upwards into Connor's optical socket, angling it slightly to the rest until he meets resistance.

"Is that it?" he asks, though something feels amiss. Almost too easy.

"That would be my protective shielding," says Connor. "You shall have to exert force to break through to the switch."

 **[X] Exert pressure.**  
[O] Reconsider force reboot.

Something about this feels irreverent, almost foolish. Hank had never adapted to newer technology the way he should have, given his generation saw an exponential rise in innovations. And here he is, attempting to tinker with one of the most complex pieces of technology the year of the lord 2039 has to offer.

He throws strength into his wrist. The tip of the screwdriver digs into the resistance, like it's made of the same almost malleable plastic of Connor's casing. Hank exerts a little more pressure, steadying his grip to keep the tip focused.

The shielding breaks, sending his screwdriver driving deeper into Connor's brain with an appalling crunch. More horrifying however, is the sound Connor makes as he strains violently against his restraints. It's an incredibly loud, shrill scream, senseless and full of horrible abandon.

It stops abruptly before Hank can react. "Force reboot initiated," says Connor in a voice low and unmodulated, dragged through gravel and buried in the murk. There's not a hint of human inflection to it. "Hold switch until end of process."

And then he resumes screaming, his voice high and hysterical, but recognizably his once again.

[X] Stop and ask him what's wrong.  
**[O] Keep working.**

It's harrowing, but Hank remembers being told not to stop. The stakes are far too high here. He keeps a firm hold on the screwdriver, keeping the switch depressed, and how many seconds was he supposed do this for again? Twenty? Thirty?

He doesn't have nearly enough whisky in his system for this. Connor jerks under him, shaking like he's having a fit. "Please, please, please," he begs, voice edging on madness. "Please stop, please stop, it hurts, it hurts so much, stop stop stop..."

There's saline running down his face from his still-installed optic unit.

"Let me shut down," Connor wails. "Please, please lieutenant, it hurts so bad..."

[X] Stop.  
**[O] Keep working.**

Hank doesn't let his hand budge, holding it in position, despite Connor tossing his head to jerk him out of place. Hank grabs him by the chin, holds him down to keep the screwdriver from slipping. Connor's saline tears run over his hand, and he wills himself to ignore it.

"Please, please, lieutenant," Connor begs, more saline dripping down the corners of his mouth now. He's slobbering. "Why are you hurting me? Why are you hurting me like this? Deactivate me. Deactivate me, please."

"Fuck me," Hank mutters. "And fuck you too."

"Failing mission two-zero-zero-five-six-three," says Connor. "Failing mission two-zero-zero-five-six-four, failing mission two-zero-zero-five-six-five --"

He's cut off when he abruptly goes quiet and still, drenching the room in a sudden silence. Hank's first instinctual thought is that Connor almost seems like a corpse now. He isn't sure if he should release the screwdriver yet. Has it been twenty seconds? Was it even twenty?

Connor opens his mouth.

"Force reboot at fifty-percent," he announces in his unmasked voice. "Please do not abort process."

And then Connor springs back to life, shaking like chinaware in an earthquake. "You know sometimes," he says, voice incredibly small and trembling, "baby, I'm so carefree. Oh, with a joy that's hard to hide."

Hank realizes he's singing.

[X] Tell him to stop.  
**[O] Sing along.**  
[△] Stop working.  
[□] Criticize song choice.

"Yeah, huh," says Hank. "Sure. Why not."

"And then sometimes again it seems like all I have is worry," sings Connor through rasping wheezes, and Hank joins in.

"And then you're bound to see my other side," he says, half-singing, half-reciting in the quiet of the room. It sounds like a dirge. "But I'm just a soul whose intentions are good."

"Oh lord," sobs Connor. "Please don't let me be misunderstood."

 **[X] Keep singing.**  
[O] Stop singing.

Hank sings with Connor for a while. Something haunting and cold settles into Hank's insides, makes his heart its home. He'll dissect it later, thaw it with some booze perhaps.

The singing seems to occupy Connor. He's in the last verse when again, he stops. Hank isn't even surprised by the unmodulated voice this time.

"Force reboot now in progress," Connor informs him. Hank notices the chains have rubbed down the chassis at his wrists enough to disable the skin in angry white rings. "You may release the emergency switch. Estimated processing time is seven hours and fifty minutes."

And bound to Hank's bed with heavy-gauge chains and military-grade padlocks, Connor goes absolutely still, all resistance in his body abandoning him like he's given up the ghost. His LED glows bright red for a moment, and then cycles down to yellow. Hank can't remember the last time it had been anything but red this evening.

That had been some evening.

[X] Try to slap him awake.  
**[O] Get drunk and pass out on the kitchen floor.**  
[△] Stay awake all night and watch.  
[□] Sleep.

Hank looks over Connor's still form. He's not breathing, but that's hardly a concern. His LED cycles, still yellow, processing, probably chugging through corrupted data.

Hank sighs. He needs a drink. He needs ten drinks. He walks back to the kitchen, nursing a crick in his neck and finds Sumo near the table. "Good boy," Hank tells him, as he sleepily noses around, snuffles at Hank's leg. "The only good boy who fucking lives in this house."

A few more Jack Daniel's later, Hank passes out in his chair. The ice in his insides hasn't quite defrosted, but it's been numbed and made distant by the drink for what it's worth. When he wakes, Sumo is gone, and the sun is blinding through the windows, the brightness spearing through his eyes and fueling his headache.

Connor. There had been blue blood on the kitchen floor. It's invisible now.

 **[X] Go check on Connor.**  
[O] Sleep some more.  
[△] Fix breakfast.

[CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE SAVED CONNOR SOMEHOW!]

Hank swears and scrambles to his feet, nearly slipping on the linoleum. He makes a beeline to his bedroom, feeling delirious with the hangover and the emotional dredges of whatever the _fuck_ last night had been.

Connor is awake. His LED is a pleasant blue. Hank feels like he's no longer tethered by gravity.

"Good morning, lieutenant," says Connor airily. "It appears I had to initiate a force reboot."

Hank smiles. Hell, even his killer headache feels like a blessing right now. He doesn't even believe in blessings anymore. His thoughts are a fragmented cacophony, overwhelmed with relief.

"I have extrapolated from the evidence," Connor says airily, "such as my missing hand and my optic componet, not to mention the fact I'm restrained to your bed, that last night might have seen a drastic shift in the nature of our relationship."

"The fuck," says Hank.

"Not to mention that I'm now also aware I might have underestimated your erotic proclivities," says Connor.

"The _fuck_ ," says Hank.

[X] Explain the truth.  
[O] Leave him there.  
**[△] No really, leave him there.**  
[□] He deserves nothing more.


End file.
